Pryce Asked Who I Was

The hotpot's in the fridge. I haven't opened it. I keep opening the door and looking at the Tupperware like it's about to do something. She made it Friday morning, presumably, and Joan carried it across London in a Marks & Spencer bag because my mum told the luncheon club I wasn't eating. The luncheon club. I didn't know there was a council in Stretford reviewing my meals. There is. They've been discussing me for months and I had no vote.

I stood at that bar in Hoxton feeling like there was a version of me in the room I'd never met. Brenda's boy. Loved, apparently, by people who'd decided I wasn't eating. I walked out with the hotpot and sat on the bus with it on my knee like a small warm baby I hadn't asked for. The bloke next to me was eating a Ginsters. I wanted to say I'm carrying my mum's love in a container, mate but you don't, do you.

I tried to make it funny at the cafe. Got two pages I don't fully hate. Tried them tonight at Camden. Mostly landed. A few laughs. Two tables looked away. I clocked both. One bloke I think was on his phone. The other I don't know. I want to ask who they were. I won't.

Pryce. Someone at the bar said Pryce came in earlier and asked who I was. I don't know what that is. Could be nothing. Could be the start of something. I ranked it on the Northern line all the way home. I ranked it in the shower. I ranked it brushing my teeth. It's probably nothing. Pryce's probably asked about forty people this week. I went home and ranked it anyway.